


Save me

by Trash



Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 17:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: But how do you explain the dark thoughts that keep you up at night?





	Save me

They’re in the middle of nowhere. Or close enough, anyway. A city that’s a city only by name. The road signs still say town. There’s no cathedral. That kind of place. There used to be shipyards here, Dick said when somebody asked about it. The handful of bars they go into have that vibe, that ‘town squashed by the Tories’ kind of vibe. It makes Dan feel empty. 

He stuffs his clothes into the washing machine of the laundrette with enough force that the door slams against the machine beside him, the one Kyle is using. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah. Just. Thinking. Nothing in particular,” he says, “before you ask.”

Kyle nods, seems satisfied enough with the answer even though they both know it’s bullshit. “You not going to separate your whites?” Kyle asks.

Dan accepts the offered olive branch and smirks. “No,” he says. “Sorry, mum.”

“S’alright.” He holds up a grey, long-sleeved shirt. “This used to be white,” he says.

“There’s no saving that.”

“Hmm, no. I keep it around though, shit as it is.”

Dan closes his machine and looks at him. “Am I the gross old shirt, in this scenario.”

“Hey, it’s not gross.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

It’s been like this for a while, tip-toeing around one another. Around the elephant in the room. Dan wishes Kyle would just spit it out. Says as much.

“Spit what out?” Kyle asks, doesn’t look up from where he is adding detergent to his machine.

“There’s something wrong. And I know that something is me. And I’m really the best person to discuss me with.”

Kyle blushes, feeds coins into the machine and presses start. “It’s not like that, Dan.”

It’s exactly like that. “Do you think I haven’t heard? Think I haven’t noticed you all trying to encourage me to stay in whenever we are stopped? How you all drink less? I’m not fucking stupid, Ky.”

There’s just the sound of the washing machines for almost a full minute. “We’re worried,” he says, weakly. “Not. To be clear, this isn’t a fucking intervention, I couldn’t give much of a shit about how much you drink or smoke. Staying out, partying, that’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?” Dan asks, even the answer is going to be him.

“Well. You, mate.”

Dan laughs, humourlessly. “Cheers.”

“Oh, fuck off. You know what I mean. I’m always worried I’m going to get that call, you know? The one that says you’re in hospital.”

“That was one time-“

“Or a fucking hearse. And like, fuck the band, you know? That’s always the first thing people talk about when a singer dies. What’s the future of the band? There isn’t one without you. And you know that. So if you’re sticking around for that then…I want to be the one to say…don’t.”

“So you’re telling me to off myself now?”

Kyle slaps his leg. That mum-turned-round-in-the-car kind of slap. There’s nothing for a second, then it hurts. “You know that’s not what I fucking mean, you prick. We can’t all be as…you know, fucking, articulate as you. And this is all hard enough to talk about without you criticising me.”

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. You know what I mean though, right? If this is making you unhappy-“

“It isn’t.”

“Then what?”Dan takes a deep breath, says to the washing machine “Do you ever just get sick of being alive?”

“No,” Kyle says, honestly.

It’s hard to hear. He’d wanted Kyle to say yes, for someone to fucking get it. “Shit.”

“Hey, don’t give up on me. Just because I don’t feel the same way doesn’t mean I can’t empathise.

But how do you explain? The dark thoughts that keep you up at night. The things you said that you wished you could take back, and the things you didn’t say that you wished you had. The people you turned your back on and those you didn’t but should have. The way their faces swim before your closed eyes at night, and the only way to make them fuck the fuck off is to stay awake, and the only way to do that is to go out and drink and dance. How do you explain the exhaustion, the way life is just draining all the time, and people’s problems seem so inconsequential and how it’s hard to pretend to care, sometimes. And how nothing you ever write is good enough, and none of your music is worth it. None of it.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dan says. “I’m fine.”

And Kyle doesn’t push it.


End file.
